


emulous

by unicornball



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pretty much just a PWP OK?, Prompt Fill, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornball/pseuds/unicornball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester do not get along. Unfortunately, one night they get trapped in the office where they work and frustrations come to a head. (ie: they get stuck together somewhere and the UST explodes all over their suits.)</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	emulous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizackles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizackles/gifts).



> _I finally found my notes for a fic request/prompt from the lovely Mizackles:_ "an AU Cas  & Dean hate each other...they could be like rival business men always competing & going up against each other to win clients...then maybe they get stuck somewhere together & have "hate sex"...yummy...slip in some wall slammin'..."
> 
> _I do apologize it's taken so damn long to get this out, but hopefully it's worth it? Uhm. Just a little...? heh. I'm still not sure I nailed the angry/hate sex part (I kept slipping into fluffy kinda shit but I think I squashed it all), so yous lemme know (nicely? *puppy eyes*), okay?_
> 
> _Enjoy._

Dean Winchester tries to keep the sneer off his face as he watches the little drab-suit-grey clad cluster of men walk past his office, their images slightly distorted by the glass windows. Even with his door closed he can hear the donkey-bray, nasally laugh of Zachariah and his face pinches slightly with a hint of a grimace. He can only imagine what sort of joke the CEO would laugh at; probably something sadistic about punching kittens, panda vivisection, or drowning guinea pigs.

And of course, Novak is right at the head of the pack, walking next to Zachariah with the most suck-uppy expression on his face. The little kiss-ass.

If there's one person in the entire company he can't stand it's Castiel fucking Novak. And he doesn't give a shit what Charlie in IT says, it's not some misguided sense of sexual frustration or unresolved sexual tension shit, either. (Because—what? _Really?_ Dean's pretty sure the girl's been reading too much Spirk fanfiction if she's seeing that kinda shit everywhere...)

OK, so the guy is good looking; Dean would have to be blind not to notice. Those unnaturally clear blue eyes (that _have_ to be contacts), plush pink lips, that fucking jaw with its manly 5 o'clock shadow by 2 pm, the artfully messy dark hair. But, _no_ , it's not any of that; it's the guys complete inability to handle competition or take defeat with any sort of grace. His holier-than-thou attitude whenever he's around anyone that's not above his pay-grade. His complete and utter lack of a sense of humor. Simply put: the guy's a freakin' walking dick in a suit.

The guy also can't seem to understand the basic rules of business conduct; clients are up for grabs until contracts are signed. Everybody knows that—that's why you stay until 10 pm (on a freakin' Saturday), family in another state, and no social life but two damn cellphones. Sealing the deal takes dedication and effort, he's not one to back away from either until he nails it.

Dean might've put some extra effort into landing clients he knew Novak was talking with, but he refused to be labeled a poacher (or whatever stick-up-the-ass-walking-thesaurus word Novak used). Castiel is just a sore freakin' loser that can't close the deal as often.

Dean watches the group of men turn the corner, forced laughter and a 'good one, sir!' following in their wake. He makes face at his door and pulls his headset off, rubbing at the sore spot behind his ear with one hand while the other rubs at the bridge of his nose. He drops his hands and spins in his chair to stare out the window, brow furrowed just a little and his fists clenched with just the very thought of Castiel Novak.

Ugh. He sucks his teeth with disgust and spins back around, annoyed he's spent more than 8 seconds thinking about anything but the Edlund contract.

.[].

Castiel Novak's grip on the handle of his attaché tightens a little as he catches sight of Dean Winchester. He grits his teeth and tries to regulate his breathing, working on calming himself when he's convinced he can actually feel his blood pressure spike. It wouldn't do to be seen foaming at the mouth, glaring poisonously or— _god forbid_ —punching a co-worker in the throat. He feels the corner of his eye twitch when the other man oozes past Anna's desk, lecherous grin in place and getting into the young woman's personal space.

Doesn't the odious creep realize such things are against the company's sexual harassment policies? They'd all be required to attend the seminars... Again. Friendly banter is one thing, but standing there (arms crossed and muscles obscenely bulging, pulling his suit jacket taut over his sculpted back and showcasing his well-filled out pants), suggestive smile bright and filthy, openly ogling the woman's attire while making no doubt lewd conversation is way beyond that line.

It's disgraceful.

It seems to amass 80% of Winchester's day, as well. He rarely sees the other man actually working; he's either strutting around the place, winking and cocking a finger at people as he heads off to wherever he goes or he's perched on the corner of a desk (or catching some doe-eyed intern in the halls), flirting outrageously. Shamelessly.

It's a wonder how Mr. Adler can stand the man, let alone look almost affectionate (as much as Mr. Adler is capable of mustering human emotion for any person, that is) when speaking of Winchester, whether it's Winchester's figures. Winchester's client closure rate. Winchester's this, Winchester's that. It's positively infuriating! He doesn't understand how Winchester charms people; the man has the grace and charisma of a Neanderthal. He's amazed the man opens his mouth and manages to speak in something more evolved than grunts and chest thumps, quite honestly.

He glares down the hall, willing the other man to get back to his own business by the power of his mind alone.

It doesn't work.

But at least Winchester catches his expression and falters, scowling faintly... then he just smirks and makes a point of looking down Anna's blouse, even though it's buttoned primly. He's pretty sure Winchester even winks at him, the skuzzball. He tries not to scowl or think less of the redhead when he sees Anna, shy and quiet Anna, smile back as she pushes a few errant strands of red hair behind her ear in an obvious display of reciprocal flirting.

Castiel nearly goes over there, nearly gives into the urge to let Anna know that a mere 15 minutes ago Dean was pulling the same moves on Alfie on the fourth floor. He doesn't, though. He's quite sure Anna wouldn't really care, anyway. So, in the privacy of his mind, Castiel feels justified in indulging himself in some name calling as he laments the sanity of anyone within 10 feet of Winchester and heads into his office to prepare for his 1 o'clock.

.[].

Dean stabs at the elevator button absentmindedly, gaze firmly on his cellphone. Jesus, doesn't Adler know it's after midnight? Does the asshat really expect Dean to answer his email— _now_? He sighs and taps 'reply' because, yeah, Adler expects it and he isn't going to _not_ do it. It's not like this is the first after-hours email he's replied to and he knows it damn well won't be the last. He can almost hear the man's nasally voice, the pompous tone as he praises him for 'dedication and hard work' as he taps out a response.

He's halfway through composing a reply when he realizes there's been no ding for the elevator, no movement of the doors opening. He looks up and presses the button again, frowning a little when he realizes the button isn't lit up. Shit. That can't be good. He glances at the floor indicator with a drawn out sigh; he really _really_ does not want to walk down 32 flights of stairs. But he will because he's not staying in this damn building overnight.

Fuck _that_. He's not that big of a kiss ass, go-getter. He'll leave that ridiculousness to Novak. He snickers under his breath, amused with himself, and makes for the fire escape.

Only to walk into the door, forehead and chest thumping against the steel door and barred pane of glass when it doesn't open. He presses on the handle but it doesn't budge at all. Locked.

"What the fuck?" he mutters under his breath, trying it once again for good measure. He finally lets his hand drop, realization dawning that he's trapped. Fucking trapped. Isn't there some sort of fire code, safety law or _something_ against this sort of thing? He feels panic claw at his chest and loosens his tie in jerky movements, eyes darting around the marbled area.

All of the elevators are dark but he tries each button anyway.

Nothing. No lights. No dings. No bings. No _nothing_.

All the fire-doors are locked as well.

If his breathing picks up and his eyes widen a bit, he feels perfectly justified; he's seen too many damn movies that start like this to not panic. A little. Of course he knows he's being absolutely ridiculous. There's no way there's an axe murdering—

He just barely stifles a manly scream and turns around at the sound of footsteps. He might've made a soft _eep_ sound as he shuffles backwards, flattening himself against the wall and hoping he can spontaneously master the art of invisibility. Or camouflage. Or maybe some killer ninja moves...

Dean cracks an eye open when the footsteps get nearer and he's not sure if he's relieved or supremely pissed off to see Novak walking towards him.

Novak with his stupid squinty face and his stupid messy hair (like he'd been working at his desk for hours, running his fingers through it from frustration or just out of habit). Novak with his stupid glasses that are thick, black trendy frames that did stupid things to his ridiculous cheek bones and big, dumb, bambi-like cerulean eyes.

Dammit. He needs to have a stern talk with Charlie about her waxing poetic all over the guy. Like, now. How many times can he hear _oh-em-gee-he's-seriously-sexalicious! A-wet-dreamy-earth-angel_ without it sinking in like some sort of porny subliminal message? He officially hates her and probably needs to remind her that she's not supposed to want to be staring at dude asses and rating them on biteability, size, shape, and muscle-tone. And now he can't seem to freakin' stop staring at the half-rolled up sleeves that are showing off Castiel's forearms, bare wrists and those damn hands.

Long, graceful fingers that probably can do all sorts of awesome things to someone's d—

"Are they out?"

Dean blinks, gaze snapping to Castiel's face. The guy's head is slightly tilted in that confused dog way he has and he purses his lips a little. So he won't be tempted to go 'awww!' (no, he totally meant call the guy a mental deficient) or something else equally inappropriate. He clears his throat after a few long seconds of silence, realizing that he's never actually talked to the guy before. He's been careful to never be overtly rude to Castiel before and starting now seems like a really dumb idea.

Aside from his observations from afar, they've only ever had one of those 'indifferent nod hello in the hallways' interactions and occasional 'thank you' nods when they're close enough in meetings to have to pass pens or something. And, really, that's enough for him.

Novak could moonlight as a serial killer, for all he knows. And he's trapped in the building with the guy. No sense in poking a bear with a short stick and all that...

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so."

Castiel nods slowly, unsure what to say. He's already figured that part out but he'd been so shocked to see another person—and _Dean Winchester_ , of all people—to engage his brain properly. He's never encountered another employee, besides maintenance, this late before. Just his luck it's Winchester, really. He checks his watch and sighs softly. He forgot about the weekly security re-boot. He restrains the urge to yank on his hair, if only so he doesn't give Winchester the satisfaction of seeing him frustrated.

He glances up and his brows furrow slightly as he takes in Winchester's slightly panicked expression, the man's green eyes flicking to the silent elevators with something akin to dread. "It's only the re-boot," he says slowly, as close as he can get himself to a soothing tone. He waves a finger around the dimmed elevators, eyebrows rising up his forehead now. Dean just looks confused but no less horrified. He nearly sighs, unsure why he's even bothering; it's not like he really cares to assuage any discomfort Winchester might be feeling. He's a grown-ass man and any childhood sort of fears he's experiencing aren't his concern.

"Everything resets," Castiel explains, eyebrows popping up a little when he's still met with a blank expression. He focuses on unrolling his sleeves and re-buttoning them, oddly unsettled to be seen in such a casual state. There's complete silence from the other man and he looks up to see a slightly confused expression. "On Fridays. At midnight."

"Oh," Dean says slowly. He feels marginally better knowing he isn't trapped in here. All night—or all fucking weekend, more accurately. With _Novak_. Holy shit, what a clusterfuck that would be. They'd probably end up beating each other to death with staplers like Gladiators over the last Snickers in the associate lounge's vending machine. "How long?"

Castiel checks his watch again. "Shouldn't be more than another twenty minutes," he says, tone short and annoyed. Because he knows this means he's stuck spending 20 minutes alone, and in cramped quarters, with Dean Winchester. He nearly kicks something with a childish rush of frustration. He glowers when he catches the other man's expression. "What?" he snaps.

"Nothing," Dean mutters, throwing his padded laptop case on the floor and flopping down next to it with an irritated huff. Awesome; he's stuck in here for another 20 damn minutes. Possibly longer because Castiel didn't sound all that sure. He glances up and scowls right back, not at all bothered he's acting like a damn 12-year-old—Novak fucking started it, anyway. "What?" he mimics when he notices he's being glared at. It's a withering glare, no doubt meant to cow him but he's had worse; dude's got nothing on Sam's bitch-face when he just shrugs over the horrors of corn syrup and not buying organic.

Castiel doesn't say anything, just crosses his arms over his chest and turns his back on Winchester. The other man's childish faces aren't doing a damn thing for his blood pressure. He's dimly aware of a soft scuffing sound as Winchester probably gets to his feet, but he's not expecting the hand on his upper arm. Or being forcefully turned around, thick fingers digging into the muscle of his bicep.

It's not entirely painful but he scowls darkly, hand clenching. "Unhand me."

Dean's answering scowl is mocking but not exactly unfelt. Who the hell says 'unhand me'? Jeez-us this guy is a piece of work. He doesn't let go but he does ease his grip up a little, no sense in bruising the peach. Because, yeah, Novak can make some scary ass faces when he's pissed off and he really doesn't want to test the smite-y look he's being given. He can still feel the hard bunch of muscle under his hand, so it's not like he's not aware that Castiel has some muscle there to put behind a punch if he wants to.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" Castiel gapes, stunned into momentary silence. The absolute nerve! He's so stunned, he can't think. Can't speak. How could— What the— Is he even serious? " _My_ _problem_?" he asks again, voice dropping an octave lower with anger. He yanks his arm away, pushing the hand off his arm as he does so, and gets into Winchester's personal space. He can see the muscles in the other man's jaw tick as his teeth clench but Dean doesn't back away, the stubborn bastard.

He steps even closer, eyes narrowing a little as he glares with something akin to holy wrath. "My _problem_ , Winchester, is _you_."

"Oh yeah?" Dean knows it's lame, but he never expected Novak to actually _say_ anything. He was expecting something polite, business-like, maybe a scoff as Novak got set to list the finer points of company policy or something. Maybe stick his nose up with one of those snooty little sniffs as he waits for the reboot thing to happen as he recites all the reasons Dean is a dick. Maybe some ranting. Dignified shoving perhaps.

But not _this—_ not Castiel looking truly pissed off as he shakes his jacket out with a prissy little snap of his wrist and shrugging into it, pushing his arms into the sleeves like they've personally offended him. He's not expecting Castiel to adjust his cuffs, his slightly crooked tie and then completely ignore him. Back turned. No further comment, just stony silence as he studies the elevators like they're the most fascinating thing.

What the fuck is up with _that_? He can't stand being ignored. He steps closer to Castiel, stepping around him to get in his face and pokes him, hard, in the chest. "What's your problem with me?" A stupid part of him really wants to know what the answer could possibly be. Wants to know why. He knows why _he_ doesn't like Castiel (because nobody likes smug little goody-two shoes) but he can't imagine what possible problem Novak could have with him. He's a joy to be around, dammit. Ask anyone, even the weird guy Chuck in Accounting occasionally comes out of his hermit shell to have a chat.

Castiel brushes Dean's finger off with a glare. "I don't think we have that much time."

Dean blinks twice as the words settle in. Then he's pissed, like super pissed off that Castiel could be such a pissy, sassy little asshole about it. He's not even thinking anymore, he's just acting as he lunges forward. Before either of them can really process what's going on, he has Castiel by the lapels of his stupidly expensive, exquisitely tailored suit jacket, and he looms closer, getting in his face. He fully intends to shake the guy, maybe just be satisfied he's wrinkled the stupid suit to hell.

But. Up close, it's hard to ignore those damn plush lips and striking eyes... He's pretty sure his brain is sending the signal to let go, push Castiel away, but his hands tighten instead. He yanks the other man closer, mostly just because he knows it'll wipe that pissed off look off his face. And it does, but—

Oh god, he so does not secretly lust after Castiel I'm-Better-Than- _Every_ one-At-Every _thing_ Novak. He knows he's full of shit, though, the longer he stares like some idiot at too-blue eyes and stubble and kissable lips and—

Dammit.

They're both breathing hard and it's impossible to not notice the way their chests brush together, their breathing in sync as they glare at each other. Even through the layers of their button down shirts, Dean can feel it. He viciously curses the little, teensy part of him that wants to whimper. Maybe even get closer and nuzzle like a damn, touch starved puppy because that firm warmth of Castiel's chest feels kind of awesome.

Castiel notices the gold flecks amongst the green in Dean's eyes. How had had not noticed that before? And the smattering of freckles across a fine nose and high cheekbones. Is this the sort of thing that charms two-thirds of the office into not tossing their coffee in Dean's face when he makes inappropriate comments?

Not that any of these observations make Dean Winchester less of a dick. Just, unfortunately, an _attractive_ dick. He growls with frustration and lingering anger, still pissed off and now he's getting aroused. And pissed off because he's aroused. And frustrated that he's aroused _and_ pissed off, at the same damn time. Really, this whole situation has gotten away from him and he has no idea what the hell he's doing anymore.

He scowls when there's a strange, soft noise from Dean and those stupidly green eyes are darker, pupils dilated with what can only be desire. There's also the unmistakable firm feeling of Dean's growing erection against his thigh. Castiel's eyes narrow as he stares intently, trying to figure out if Dean is fucking with him or not.

Then again... He can't think of a single reason why Winchester would choose _this_ as a means of revenge. Or how the man would be able to go from a scowling, enraged bull to a cat in heat in less than a minute with anything less than the utmost sincerity. And really, if there is a joke being played, he can't imagine what the point would be. But has every intention of not being the punchline. He presses closer, pleasantly surprised when Dean's eyelids droop and his teeth catches his bottom lip.

Castiel nearly smirks at the half-hearted, too-late attempt Dean makes to stop the noises coming out of his mouth. He's already heard the breathy little moan.

He angles his head just so and their mouths clash in a harsh, wet kiss. It's mainly teeth and tongues, sloppy and wet. They're panting harshly into the other's mouth, teeth clashing almost painfully in their zeal to dominate the other. Castiel nearly growls with satisfaction when Dean backs off just enough to let him angle the other man's head just how he wants it, thumbs digging into his jaw with just enough pressure to get Dean's mouth open, inelegantly jamming his tongue down his throat. He grunts when Dean moans, hips bucking forward and making their clothed erections scrape against each other.

Their hands fist roughly in each other's hair, pulling a little. Dean likes it, Castiel doesn't. Dean's easy, he mentally shrugs at Castiel's growl of displeasure and lets go; his hands wander lower, over firm shoulders and down a hard back, fisting in expensive fabric instead. Neither of them seem to give a shit as it wrinkles, Dean yanking until Castiel lets go of him long enough for him to pull the jacket off and it hits the floor with a whisper of fabric, forgotten the moment it leaves his fingers.

He'd laugh about how ridiculous this whole thing has become, like a bad movie where people are screaming in each others faces only to start mauling each other and fucking like bunnies on the nearest flat surface in a fit of passion. He used to think it was dumb, a stupid over-exaggeration, something that _just didn't happen_ in the real world.

Well.

He knows better now; _now_ he can totally see how you can get so worked up the only solution is to fucking kiss the asshole so he shuts the hell up. How suddenly, the idea of seeing if the stick up his ass can be yanked out and put to better use seems like a really good one and you'd do anything to test the theory out. He's pretty sure there's something to the whole 'silent type' being a closet toppy bastard, too, when he's pushed and pulled, yanked and slammed into and it's more awesome than annoying.

Dean groans, his head falling back a little as Castiel's hands do amazing things to his ass, kneading and squeezing in a way that's just shy of too much-too hard but oh so good. "Fuck," he breathes out when he's pulled closer by a firm grip around his hips, Castiel's hands strong and firm. Jesus. It shouldn't so much of a turn on to find out Castiel is stronger than he looks and has no problems man-handling him like he's got some right to do it. But it is and it sends heat all through his body, pooling low and happy in his belly.

He'd tell himself he's never thought about it before, never stared at Castiel and wondered if he'd be quiet or mouthy, pliant or bossy. But everything goes to white noise when he's being kissed again, his bottom lip clamped in between annoyingly perfect teeth and pulled on, snapping back when Castiel lets it go with a filthy moan. Castiel dives back in, the next kiss hard and dirty, like he's fucking pissed off he's enjoying it so much and he's trying to make Dean pay for it.

Dean fists a hand in Castiel's hair again, mostly just so he'll hear that pissed-off little growl again. Castiel pulls away from his mouth, that stupidly sexy growl coming out again as slightly chapped lips slide down his neck, sloppy wet kisses and just-this-shy-of-too-hard nips on his neck in retaliation. It has the opposite effect, really, and Dean just makes a keening sound he'd be embarrassed about if he wasn't so damn turned on. There's a little rational part of his brain left wondering just what the fuck he's doing, but mostly, he's just focused on the _so good_ and hot rushing feeling of pleasure as Castiel presses and squeezes.

He hooks a leg up behind Castiel's, getting a better angle and grip so he can rut against the man's leg in earnest. Yeah, he kinda feels like Sam's Labrador but he's getting desperate here, doing what he needs to do to get some friction and relief because Castiel's hands haven't gone anywhere near where he actually wants them.

And Dean's pretty sure the bastard is doing that shit on purpose; color him surprised Castiel is a freakin' tease. Thankfully, his little leg humping trick works like a charm. Castiel groans in his ear, the deep, low sound that less heard than _felt_ as it vibrates through Dean's chest and sends a jolt right to his dick. Jesus fuck, but he needs more.

Their hands bump and smack together as they both reach down at the same time, focused on the other's belt _—_ yanking and pulling with desperate, hard tugs that has them both moving forward with the force, slamming into each other and making their still-clothed erections brush together with maddening pressure and heat again. They both make the same choked off groan and stare at each other just long enough to know neither of them is walking away.

They smirk at each other before their hands are back fumbling at leather and wool.

Dean blinks when he's spun around, his back slamming against the wall. He didn't know Castiel had it in him to be able to move him around so easily. The bastard is probably built like a damn demi-god under that stupid suit. Dean tries to buck away, get some leverage and control back, but Castiel pins him to the wall with his hips, hands on his shoulders. He grunts with surprised pleasure, eyes wide and dark with arousal because holy shit that's hitting some big ass kink buttons he hadn't been aware of before now.

Of course, Castiel notices. The fucker. But Dean really can't complain about it because Castiel just uses that to his advantage, holds him steady and just fucking manhandles him again, jamming his knee between his thighs and kissing him hard and deep. It's just as rough and demanding as the others and he can't help enjoying it a little.

Dean's eyes flutter closed as Castiel's hands _finally_ slide down his chest and stomach to his zipper. He tries to be patient, let Castiel get on with it in his own time, but he's too worked up to wait. He presses his hips closer, sliding his hands down to cup at Castiel ass and pull. It's a nice ass but he doesn't get long to enjoy it before Castiel is shoving him back against the wall, pinning him once again. He goes to complain but Castiel's hands are back at his zipper and yanking, working his pants open with quick, efficient tugs. The heavy material drops, pooling at his ankles the moment the fastenings are undone.

Castiel slips his hands under the elastic of Dean's boxer-briefs, cupping his bare ass for a moment before his palms are sliding along his hips and thighs as his underwear is pushed down, too. Dean groans when Castiel's long fingers wrap around his cock, the touch possessive and demanding, tight and perfect. He's fully hard, already flushed and wet, and Castiel smirks at him, moving his hand in two quick pumps that makes Dean practically pant and curl inwards towards the infuriating bastard with an embarrassingly loud, needy sound.

"I'm going to fuck you raw, but I still fucking hate you," Castiel growls, his hand in constant motion now that he's aware Dean enjoys it. Not that he cares what Dean wants, per se, but he's never been a selfish lover and he won't start now. He doesn't give Dean a chance to respond before he's placing another bruising kiss to those sinful lips, swallowing another choked out moan as he continues the almost-too-rough jerk off. But there isn't any hint of refusal, Dean moaning into the touch as his fingers dig in and pull, so he's quick to pull a condom from his pocket, carefully ripping the foil packet open with his teeth.

Dean moans and can't help being turned on knowing that the lubed condom is going to be the only thing slicking the way. He's gotten by with less...

But, no—Castiel's fingers are in his mouth, thrusting in roughly and nearly making him gag. Even so, he's immediately sucking and slobbering all over them the second they part his lips. He stares back at Castiel, making a dirty-hot show of licking all over those slim, long fingers in his mouth. He flicks his tongue over Castiel's index finger, winking, sucking the fingers back in like it was a dick. Castiel is staring right back, expression intense, those fucking blue eyes dark and flicking rapidly between his eyes and mouth. He's making obscene slurping sounds, drooling a little too, but he doesn't give a shit if it's too much. Not when the moan Castiel makes sounds like it comes from his fucking toes and gives him a look that's practically crawling up his dick and pumping him like a physical caress.

Castiel pulls his fingers free with a filthy wet sound, watching as they leave shiny trails along Dean's plump bottom lip. He almost wishes he had the time and patience to shove Dean to his knees, see if his ministrations would feel better on his cock instead of his fingers. He grabs at Dean's thigh, perching it on his hip as he reaches down so he can press his still-wet fingers between Dean's cheeks. His fingers sink right into tight warmth and he can't help groaning. It's snug but surprising easy going and he groans a little louder, his fingers moving slow and easy, but insistent.

Dean's head falls back against the wall with a dull _thunk_ he doesn't even feel, eyes fluttering closed with the pleasure-pain of the immediate stretch-burn. He'd complain at the rush-job, but it feels too fucking good. He can't help moaning when Castiel's fingers wriggle and flex, filling and stretching, sending tingly-hot pleasure through him. His hips roll, making Castiel's fingers slide in deeper until he's bottomed out, his palm flush with Dean's ass.

Castiel only lets up so Dean can kick off his pants when the other man wriggles impatiently, muttering a breathy 'pants'. As soon as the fabric pools at their feet, he's back at it, widening his stance for balance and leverage, getting comfortable in Dean's personal space once again.

"Fucking slut, aren't you?" he murmurs, lips brushing Dean's ear as he speaks. He nips at an earlobe when Dean only makes a choked moaning sound, circling and grinding his hips down instead of answering verbally. "So eager," he says lowly, delightful pleasure clear in his tone, and adds another finger. He's not really sure how he manages to keep his voice level, almost sounding calm. Calmer than he feels, certainly. He doesn't know how everything isn't just shaking with need, want and _fuck gotta have it now_.

He huffs out a surprised breath when Dean's hips buck and circle, forcing his fingers in even deeper. Part of him wants to crook his fingers, but another is just spiteful enough he doesn't want Dean enjoying this _too_ much—not yet anyway. He leans forward again, latching his teeth lightly over Dean's bobbing Adam's apple, licking along the lightly stubbled skin and sucking back enough to make a dark pink mark.

Castiel leans back and admires his handiwork, eyeing Dean appreciatively. Flushed a lovely pink, lightly sheened with sweat, panting and moaning is a good look for Winchester; it certainty beat when the man opens his mouth and just sounds like an asshole. He practically dives back onto Dean's neck, nipping and licking as he works his fingers at a faster pace. Dean's filthy moans has his eyes fluttering closed, his forehead resting on the man's shoulder for a moment.

"Fuck, you're such a goddamn—" He breaks off, not wanting to bestow a compliment and risk Winchester's ego inflating even more.

Dean makes a strange noise that Castiel can only call a whine and his eyebrows pop up. He's not complaining, not when he's three fingers deep in Dean Winchester, they're both leaking and flushed, their pants at their ankles, but this is completely opposite any ideas he had about Winchester and how he'd be during sex.

Ah. Not that he ever thought of Dean and sex...

"Just need to be filled up—don't you? Used. Fucked hot, fast and dirty," Castiel pants out, voice no longer controlled. Dean moans again and he's not surprised to feel muscles clench rhythmically around his fingers along with the needy sound. He'd marvel at the absolute shock that Dean Winchester is a needy little cock-slut when properly motivated but he's too damn preoccupied with Dean's desperate kisses, demanding hands, and wriggling body.

He's quick to remove his fingers from Dean and grabs him by the backs of his thighs. It takes less effort than he expects to lift Dean up, settling the other man's knees over his forearms until Dean is firmly, securely, pressed between the wall and his body. Dean's arms wrap around his neck, fingers digging into his shoulder blades in a way that's surprisingly athletic and very arousing. He slides a hand up to the wall and the other to Dean's ass, mostly for support but a little fondling is also a lovely side-benefit, and lines up his sheathed cock, the angle made easier by the lovely way Dean is bent and positioned. He pushes in, fast, hard and steady.

Dean's eyes flutter closed with a loud, guttural moan as Castiel slams in fully with one rough thrust. Fuck, that feels good. His pants and underwear are still dangling from one foot and his head thumps against the wall. He's hard and leaking, cock squished between them and laying hot and throbbing against his belly. Castiel isn't paying it any mind and it's fucking perfect. He's still trying to make sense at how he's almost casually draped over Castiel's arms, legs splayed wide open, his knees pressing into his own shoulders. His head falls back into the wall with a moan because—holy shit, he's completely supported by Castiel and the damn wall.

Goddammit, he's never, ever telling Charlie about this; he knows he'll never be able to take her smug face and witch-worthy cackling that's bound to happen, for-freaking- _ever,_ because he knows she'll never let him forget she was right.

Castiel stills, mostly to let the rush of pleasure recede so he doesn't embarrass himself. Dean is snug and warm around him. Willing, wanton and spread wide open. He's surprised when he's yanked into another kiss, but returns it easily, fisting a hand in Dean's destroyed button-up.

Dean yanks his face away and nips at Castiel's chin—not exactly playfully—and squeezes around the cock in his ass. "Move it," he growls.

The command sets Castiel off for some reason and he _does_. He starts off hard and fast, fingers digging into Dean's flesh, hips snapping with almost brutal force. He nearly reins it back in, a little put-off he's let Dean affect him so...

But he hears the erotic slap of skin as their bodies meet and Dean's gasps, moans, and babbling mutterings of profanity interspersed with his own name. So, he keeps going. Reveling in the hot slick feel gripping tight around his cock and the obscene sounds and visual Dean Winchester makes while getting fucked into next week against the marbled vestibule wall.

Dean tries to fuck back, but the position he's folded into and the way his legs are dangling over Castiel's arms makes it nearly impossible. Not that he _has_ to do a damn thing... the head of Castiel's dick hits all the right spots inside with practically each fucking pull and drag. The tight, sweat-slick space between their bodies is just enough friction on his own dick to make his eyes roll back and the sluttiest sounds come out of his mouth.

Castiel watches Dean, gaze intense and cataloging every reaction, every nuance; every swipe of that tongue across abused lips, every stuttered, labored breath, every moan twitch and fluttered eyelid. It's glorious, really, to get this reaction. It's probably not all the sweeter it's _Dean Winchester_ panting and moaning for him like a damn porn star, but he has a feeling it's a significant part of it.

And it's all too good. Too hot. Too fast. Too fucking much.

"Touch yourself," Castiel commands, grunting with satisfaction when Dean immediately complies with a ragged, broken moan. He watches as Dean's hand pumps, thumb pressing underneath, and it's just that little-bit-too-much that does it. He grabs Dean around the hips, fingers digging into muscled flesh, pulling him in hard and flush as he goes still with orgasm, eyes closed and mouth open as he makes a groan of pure pleasure.

Dean writhes a little, unable to move much in Castiel's tight grip. But he's got just enough room to stroke himself off that last little bit, coming all over Castiel's fancy shirt with a hoarse shout. They both still, the only movement from their panting like crazy as they both try to catch their breath and calm their crazy heart-rates. Dean wriggles a bit, wanting to get down now that the position he's folded up in is extremely uncomfortable and awkward. He grimaces when Castiel pulls away, slipping out with a slick sound that makes him shudder a little with over-sensitivity.

His legs slide down Cas' hips, boneless and weak and his knees buckle a little as his feet hit the floor. It feels like the bones have been replaced with jello and he nearly giggles, feeling giddy and tingly all over and completely stunned stupid he just let Castiel Novak fuck him in the damn vestibule. He'd give a shit, but he's got the whole weekend to re-live and then wipe the last (fuck-hot) minutes from his memory banks and go about life as usual. His body is pretty much useless, still orgasm-heavy and uncooperative and he's sliding down the wall with a half-hearted sound of surprise.

Luckily he lands on Castiel when they both fall into a heap against the wall, panting.

"Jesus Christ," Dean says through panting breathes and a dopey, blissed-out grin.

Castiel's head cocks a little, the urge to grin just barely restrained. "No, my name is Castiel."

Dean's hand stills on his chest, his lazy rubs over his pecs and nipples no longer sending tingly aftershocks through his body, and his post-orgasmic haze clears a little. He's wondering if it'll ruin the moment if he socks Castiel for being a stupid, smug bastard.

Though, to be fair, the dude has kinda earned it; he'd literally, and thoroughly, owned his ass and gave him the best orgasm in recent memory. Maybe the guy was entitled to a little self-aggrandizing humor.

So, he allows a chuckle to escape, his thumb going back to its task of making lazy circles. He turns his head, wobbling a little because it's just too much effort to pretend he's not still all fucked-out, loose and noodle-y, body and limbs still orgasm-stupid. "Right," he agrees, looking Castiel over. He feels a little better to see a tiny smile quirking up the corner of Castiel's mouth, proof that it was indeed an attempt at a joke. His head flops back around and he rolls his eyes.

Well. At least he ruined Castiel's shirt... That's always something.


End file.
